


From the Ashes

by Mimiisaza



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Barney makes poor life decisions and suffers the consequence, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon-Typical Violence, Castration, Combine Soldier Barney, Depression, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, I don’t blame him and nobody can, M/M, Memory Loss, Mute Gordon, Pining, Self-Loathing, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimiisaza/pseuds/Mimiisaza
Summary: Anti-citizen One was still staring at him, frowning. He looked horrified.
Relationships: Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 20
Kudos: 51





	From the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Hell yeah my first HL fic. Can’t believe I skipped this game for so long. And it’s absolutely addicting, in a good way!  
> PLEASE heed the warning tags. Don’t read this if you’re uncomfortable with any of those topics, thanks:p

The City was burning.

Revolution swept across the streets like blood through feverish veins. Human rebels and citizens alike, armed with stolen Combine weapons and an oversaturated rage towards their alien conquer marched from the shadows, swarming units after units of unprepared Civil Protection teams. Gunfire and screams filled the chilly morning air. Nearly 18 years after the War, this very day marked the beginning of the Uprise.

The prophet ran loud and true. The savior of mankind had returned to his people, and all would follow him into hellfire, for the future of humanity.

Only minutes into chaos, hundreds of soldiers were already unloading from Gunships and APCs rushed into the City. The Adviser’s order was simple: Protect the Citadel. Kill all the Earthlings, where ever their allegiance may be.

Combine Soldier-2550 tuned on his sensors. For a split second, all he could see was red.

Fresh blood smeared all over the streets, seeping into the once pristine cobblestone roads. Bodies lay under hastily made barricades, some missing limbs, others lost their whole heads to explosives and shotgun bullets. Piles of rubble and oil barrels burning violently around every corner. The fight was over for these crossroads, but the battle for the City had only just begun.

Several wounded CP officers were huddling behind a stone wall. They had run out of ammunition, and one of them looked like he had taken a grenade to the face. The soldiers paid no attention to their desperate pleas for help. Comrades or not, their own mission came as the higher priority. CS-2550 went along with the others without a word, but as he walked past the wounded man, he could not help but slow down slightly.

Although it was a long time ago, he was once a member of the Civil Protection Units as well. It should be a relatively easy job. Patrolling the streets, beating people up, bursting into a few apartments every Friday night. He surely did not remember fighting rebels with grenade launchers in their arsenal. But then again, he did not remember much of anything these days. It was all a part of his promotion contract, nothing of immense value, just going with the procedure. He felt better now, with heavier armor and higher quality weapons in hand. If some stupid human decided to throw a grenade at him, he would simply pick it up and send it right back to its owner, just like he did in the Advanced CS training.

The man lying in front of him obviously did not have the luxury for such thorough military drills. Still, CS-2550 reached into his backpack and grabbed a health vial. It might not be enough, judging by the glaring hole exposing half of his frontal lobe, but it was all he was willing to spare. He tossed it at another CP standing nearby and watched him clumsily catching it in his bloodstained hands.

As he caught up with his team, the Cops yelled something at him from behind. But the flames were burning so loud, and the dispatch was dropping them an updated location in the PA system. He never knew what the men said that day, and he never saw them again.

\-- -- -- -- --

Barney curled up at the back seat of the stolen SUV and all he wanted to do was scream. The sky was dark. Rosenberg was driving, and both Simmons and Walter were sound asleep.

They did it. They escaped, all thanks to Barney and his Colt Python. The roaring of unearthly creatures and marine firearm still plaguing his mind, he had to cover both his ears with grimy hands just to provide a fake sense of security. It was meaningless of course. They were on a highway in the middle of the New Mexico desert, Black Mesa and all the nightmares it held left hundreds of miles behind. He had escaped, survived, with three total strangers. Without Gordon. Yes, without Gordon. Because Gordon was, he was...

Oh God. What had he done?

Trembling with a sudden rush of overwhelming fear and anxiety, he tried to open the door with a shaky hand. It did not budge. He tried again to no avail, and again, and again-

“Officer Calhoun, we’ve been through this already.” Rosenberg sighed from the driver’s seat, exhausted, eyes still fixed on the road. “I can’t allow you to go back. It’d be no different than suicide. You might as well find a cliff and jump right in. Same thing, only a lot less complicated for the both of us.”

Barney was still gripping onto the door handle. He heard words, but could not comprehend the meanings behind them. His mind was boiling like a furnace yet his heart felt freezing cold. What was the old man talking about? Of course he had to go back. He had to find him, find him and save him or else it would be too late-

“Are you even listening to me? Please, just-”

He pulled out his pistol and shot at the window.

The sound of shattering glass was nothing compared to the chaos born from a Resonance Cascade, but loud enough to wake up the two resting scientists, enough to put Rosenberg’s feet firmly onto the brake.

For what felt like ages, there was only silence.

“Officer Calhoun, you’re bleeding.”

Something warm and sticky was trailing down his right cheek. His own blood.

He was always the clumsy one. Getting paper cuts, burning his hand with the coffee machine, knocking his toes on the door frame on a daily basis. Gordon would just laugh at him, but he knew the man did feel genuine concern about his messy behavior. [you must learn to take better care of yourself] The physicist would sign patiently after putting a bandage on his hand and helping him up from the floor. He was always patient, a rare virtue. It was one of the first things Barney fell in love with when they first met. [what if I’m gone someday, and nobody is around to help you anymore] And Barney, with less patience in his system than a 7-year-old boy, would just grab his taller friend into a hug. “Then I’d better keep my eyes on you, aye Doc? Don’t wanna let this fine piece of work gone unattended now do we?”

And he meant it. He meant it every time he said it. But look what he had done now, letting the marines drag away his best friend like a dirtbag right in front of his eyes. For all he knew Gordon could still be alive somewhere inside that hellhole, scared, hurt, waiting for help. And if anyone could save him, anyone with enough power, experience and _a reason_ to go back and help him out, it _should_ be Barney. It _must_ be. And yet…

He did not go back. He ran, and let himself be persuaded, to feel justified.

He did not go back. 

“It’s not your fault.” One of the scientists said under his breath. He could not tell which one with hot ugly tears slowly blurring his visions. “I’m so sorry.”

They sat quietly for a while longer, while Barney wailed like a broken man that he was. He cried so much he thought he would probably die right there and then due to dehydration or heart failure. But he survived, again. Simmons handed him a bottled water. When he finished drinking between sobs, Rosenberg restarted the engine, and they were back on the road as if nothing had happened.

The sun was rising.

Barney looked out of the ruined window into an endless wasteland of sand and rocks. He was still alive, moving forward at 70 mph in stolen company property, yet a part of him felt dead and left behind. It would forever be buried in the deepest shadows of Black Mesa along with his lost love, a man he used to call his friend, one he so cowardly abandoned in favor of his own safety.

He knew it the first time he saw him, like some old Hollywood cliche, the brilliant young physicist with auburn hair and vivid green eyes would surely be the death of him. But not like this, he closed his eyes and started weeping again without a sound. Not with the slowest, most cruel form of torture named guilt. He could just find a cliff and surrender himself, but that would be the easy way out. Barney Calhoun survived, so he must live on. Even if it meant carrying the weight of the dead for the rest of his life.

\-- -- -- -- --

The battle was much more gruesome than he expected. Having only been stationed at Nova Prospeck and some random spots around the coastline, CS-2550 had never experienced such fierce street fights. The rebels were by no means well trained, but they got weapons in their hands, and given enough firepower even a crippled dog could start doing some serious damage.

Civil Protection had already been proven useless in real combat. Not that anyone expected them to do much in the first place, but still, being pushed back so easily by the same group of people who had been supposedly beaten to submission many years ago felt like a bad joke. Now it all came down to the real military men to pick up the pieces. But instead of throwing them into a trashcan, they were told to simply burn everything down.

CS-2550 wished he had brought a flamethrower. Setting fire to a crowd and watching them burn like pests would surely be much more entertaining than being stuck in the same alleyway for over two hours, only occasionally exchanging fire and never actually hitting anybody. One moment he was still fighting tooth and nail with dozens of rebels, crushing the butt of his rifle into soft human eyes and fragile skulls, next he was put into defense, the hard training he was so proud of earlier now rendered useless. Put a Metro Cop in his place and he would do just fine, so why not give him something better to do? But the order from his team leader was final: Hold your position. Do not let anyone pass, and wait for further instructions. So he stayed, with three other equally bored teammates, standing together with three rifles and a shotgun pointing into four different directions, like a slightly more efficient turret.

And then seemingly out of nowhere, a rocket launcher fired.

They knew the mobs got grenades and molotovs, but a rocket launcher? Even the elite CS teams were not equipped with that thing. This was a huge tactical mistake, and now they were going to be the first to pay the price. Before he could even figure out where the attacker was, the deadly missile flew right into their poorly chosen hideout.

To call an explosion “an explosion” when you were caught in the middle of it was an understatement. CS-2550 would say it felt more like a supernova, not that he knew how that felt either. But as he lay on the floor, choking on his own blood and broken metal parts from the vocoder inserted under his tongue, he was confident the difference was smaller than most would choose to believe.

Still disoriented and unsure whether he was dead or alive, the soldier tried to move his body. That raised a few alarms. First, he could not feel both his arms, and his left side hurt so goddamn much he had to stop any movement just to catch his breath. Once he got more used to the pain, he noticed the second thing: his gas mask was missing. 

Combine Soldiers were not supposed to lose their standard issued masks. It was against the rules. It was inconvenient, less practical and everything felt wrong without it. But then again, they were also not supposed to underestimate their enemies and get blown up by a single rocket missile like idiots, so it really did not matter. CS-2550 blinked, and sighed in relief that his sensors were still intact. Although they were a little blurry without the usual digital feedback from the mask. He tilted his head left and right, making sure his neck and spine were also in one piece. Then he saw him, the man standing among bloody body parts of his dead comrades, holding a rocket launcher.

Anti-citizen One.

The infamous Resistance idol stood silently, unmoving and unblinking, staring at him like he had seen a ghost.

Well, if the rebels did manage to dig up a weapon that powerful, of course they would offer it to their fake Messiah, who happened to be the worst killing machine the Combine forces ever had to face. While he pondered bitterly, said killing machine started walking towards him. Slowly at first, as if he was uncertain or scared, then faster, trotting and panting and in a blink of an eye he was right next to him. He put away his weapon, then carefully lowered himself onto the floor, eyes two little slits eagerly examining the soldier’s exposed and utterly deformed features. God, he was so close. And he could do nothing but stare back like a rat caught in a sealed honey jar. 

CS-2550 knew this face like the back of his rifle scope. He was, after all, at the top of the Overwatch wanted personnel list, constantly flashing through his visual downloading system like a virus. He had never met the man in person though, not this close where he could reach out and punch his blood-splattered glasses right into his evil little head. That would deal some decent damage. And he would really like to do just that, if only his left arm was not torn away from his torso by shrapnel (well that explained the pain at least), and his right arm, despite being still attached, now numb and unresponsive, lying uselessly in the rubble.

He imagined himself leap at this man, grab his neck and choke him hard, smash that oddly sad expression into the concrete floor over and over again until his skull shatters, disfigured and unrecognizable like his own. A sudden burst of anger and frustration tore through his insides like neurotoxin. But why? It felt uncomfortable, the emotions foreign and alarming. He does not feel, not anymore. Nova Prospeckt had been a blessing from the Combine, granting him a whole new level of clarity no mere human could even imagine. He does not feel, only obey, and life had been much easier since then.

But he knew this face, he just did. Even without a projection from a screen, without the dispatch reminding him why he was so dangerous to be their only Kill On Sight target. This was something deeper, something unstable, maddeningly confusing and for some reason more painful than all his aching body wounds combined.

Anti-citizen One was still staring at him, frowning. He looked horrified.

Then it hit him. The recognition was mutual. Somehow, Gordon Freeman knew his face too.

\-- -- -- -- --

November 3rd Year 15

I fucking knew it. We finally ran out of beer. And by that I mean we as a species no longer have one bottle of happy wheat water on this fucking planet. Thanks Combine. Can’t let us have one bit of fun. Fuck.

What am I even saying. We can’t drink, can’t fuck each other, can’t even kill ourselves properly cause that’d be against the fucking law. And I have to go to work tomorrow morning sober? Oh lord that sounds so bad I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just write that down. At least they still give us drugs, that’s a plus I guess. If I stay awake long enough I won’t have to deal with the nightmares. Good. That’s good. One of the few actual nice things you get from being a cop. I don’t know. Half the time I just want to die instantly and the other half I want to kill everybody at the station and then kill myself.

Kleiner said I need to talk to someone about these thoughts. No shit, like I’d just come up to the other cops and be like hey ever got the urge to put a gun to your own head and shoot? Am I crazy? Probably yes, but aren’t we all messed up one way or another. Eli was dating that nasty ginger woman and Kleiner got himself another one of those crabs for a pet. Guy had lost his mind. I shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs, I know, but hell I think both of them are happy, I mean a nasty woman and a pest are still something.

Good companies are hard to come by these days. Look at me. I don’t even speak with my co-workers unless I absolutely have to. I talk to citizens yes, but usually just some one-sided threatening bullshit before I break their noses and kick them on a train straight to Nova Prospekt. That’s my job. Ten years of service to the Civil Protection Units, and my greatest achievement being sending people to their deathbeds. They say it can’t be helped, that I had to do it or else I’d blow my cover. It can’t be helped. But they weren’t there. They did not have to get their hands dirty, literally, smashing heads and pulling teeth while they beg and scream and die. I did. The blood was all over my hands, and my face, and sometimes I feel like there’s no turning back and it’ll all just get worse and worse, and I’m just so fucking tired of all this. The Combine. The Resistance. Everybody. I don’t know, I don’t wanna say this but running away was not an option anymore, only death. Should I feel ashamed for wanting to escape?

I can almost hear poor old Kleiner telling me to “stop holding it all back” or “find someone to open up to” again. I told him I can’t and I meant it. Every day I come home after midnight, eat my shitty ration and write on this fucking diary cause I aren’t got nobody else to talk to and I can’t sleep with all these thoughts swimming in my head...

I tried, to be around people more, but I guess I didn’t try hard enough. I went to Alyx’s birthday, last Tuesday I think, and I enjoyed it at first. The cake was great, Eli was beaming like an idiot and cried a little when he thought nobody was looking. And Alyx, the girl grew so much last year she was almost at my same height! I love them, I love them all from the bottom of my heart, and I did have fun. But then Kleiner brought out that picture. He didn’t mean to upset anyone I know, I know, just wanna show Alyx how his old man used to look like with all the dorks back at Black Mesa. It was my fault. I thought it was ok, that I was ready to see him again. It was just an old photo for fucks sake. Well let’s just say being a 40 year old man laughing and crying in front of all your friends and their friends was not “ok”. And that’s not even the worst part. I ran home like the coward I always was and went to the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror and, I felt OLD. It’s not like I didn’t know I was aging. I’m not blind. But seeing him in that picture, still wearing the lab coat and nerdy glasses and that god awful tie, still 27 years old, still beautiful, passionate, hopeful, still alive. And I’m here in this alien apocalypse slowly aging and dying and strafing further and further away from him. I’m no physicist. It was always his thing not mine. But I got this weird thought about time that I don’t know how to describe, like he was stuck in the past, in a, a certain period, and I moved on, alone. In reality it’s called the difference of being dead and not dead. I know. But I like to pretend to be a bit smarter than I actually am. “Don’t laugh at me, darling, humor me.” That’s what I used to say to him whenever we both know I was about to do something stupid. Just humor me. Please. Please.

I still miss him.

I miss him so fucking much. And to think I never told him how much I loved him. But now looking back maybe it was for the best. I didn’t deserve him anyway. And he deserved so, so much more.

Well I think I need to stop going down that trail again. It never leads anywhere that much I know by now. He’s dead. End of story. The Vorts insist otherwise like he’s some kind of Jesus figure who’s destined to be the savior of mankind. Bunch of bullshit. I never trusted any of those weirdos, not after what they did to us at Black Mesa. It was all lies just to make humans their ally, and what better way than using a dead man who can’t speak up for himself anymore. Not that he could speak, even given the chance, but that’s beside the point.

It’s late. I better wrap it up here I guess. Oh one more thing. I got a promotion today. It’s not official yet cause legal consents and shit, but like I’d turn down a free offer. Nah it’s all just procedures anyways. Better ration, extra ammunition and drugs, maybe more breaks if I’m lucky. And I think they also mentioned the none mechanical reproduction simulation. I don’t know if I should trust it, feels kinda gross to be honest, allowing some machine to make my brain orgasm. But if I refuse they might take the whole package back, and I don’t want that either. Guess I’ll just go with the flow. The briefing listed Nova Prospekt as the operating site for some reason. Maybe the Combine had their sex machine hidden there somewhere. Don’t know don’t care. They can make my brain come, give me that damn promotion, or just kill me. I really, honestly don’t give a shit anymore. I just want a good rest. Hope tonight’s nightmare won’t be too long.

Bye for now. See ya when I see ya.

\-- -- -- -- --

He did not remember much, about how life was like before the transformation. The people he once knew, places he had been to, or even his own name. Combine Soldier 2550 was reborn from his former shell, an elevated being, taller, stronger, mind and body more nimble than he ever was. And life had been much easier since then.

The last thing he did remember was the day he got humanity stripped away from his existence. It was November, snow and heavy frost had once again claimed Nova Prospekt as their own, giving the grim landscape a brief illusion of serenity. He got off the train late at night, frigid air hitting his naked face and hands. They told him to remove his armor and equipment. He obeyed, not knowing why, but it did not bother him too much. He was good at following orders without thinking or caring, which had won him that promotion in the first place. Two guards led him through the front gate, into mazes of narrow corridors and looming electric doors sealed shut. A sense of dread started creeping into the back of his mind as he stepped deeper into the facility. Then realization hit him like a full-blown stun baton. They lied. It was never a promotion. He had been chosen for something much worse. 

Human modification was nothing new over a decade into alien occupation. But he thought the Combine was only recruiting former military troops, men and women who were already trained and hardened by numerous conflicts. Not some middle aged Metro Cop still high from all the psychoactive drugs put into his ration. He could run, or fight, yes. But did he want to? He had already accepted what fate had for him for the past 15 years. He tried to help the Resistance, tried letting a few citizens escape under his nose, tried to be a more decent human being. But it only felt like a triumph for about half a second each time he stepped forward from the shadow, and then the darkness fell back, suffocating him once again.

He was so tired. Maybe, maybe it was time to finally surrender.

So he let them do it, pliant as a lamb. They shaved his hair and removed his clothes, plugged him onto machines and tens and thousands of cold heavy wires. Weirdly enough, the reproduction simulation was indeed delivered as promised. Only it was nothing intentional, merely a side effect when his genitals and somatosensory cortex were scooped out of his body. How ironic, granting pleasure then taking it away forever. But he did not really care. The whole experience was quite underwhelming given the circumstances, and most of it had been wiped clean from memory along with larger fractions of his brain, replaced with electronic chips. Only now, years and years later after the operation, lying broken in a small dusty alleyway, CS-2550 looked up at a strange man’s face, close enough and long enough, really looking at him instead of some digital figure fed directly to his sensors, something long dead and abandoned was slowly emerging from the depth of his hollowed memory. Auburn hair, bright green eyes, subtle warmth only another human body could provide... Oh _he_ was so warm, even if it had all been simulated by an alien machine from his own twisted human desire.

CS-2550 suddenly had the urge to say something, anything. Ask him to surrender. Ask him to leave. Ask him what do you want and _why are you looking at me like that_. But all he managed to make was a distorted moan from his shattered vocoder.

Freeman blinked, then reached out hesitantly, tracing a finger around his damaged eye socket. They must look awful, not that he cared. He had seen mutilated corpses of his fallen comrades, and still active sensors were not pleasant to stare into on a blank half-synthetic face. It brought out this eerie sensation that somehow they were still alive, at least the mechanical parts were, but at the same time their exposed organs and rotting flesh were more than evident that they were in fact, dead. He was not dead, not yet. A Combine soldier was built to withstand severe damage even in the direst situation. He lost his mask and one of his arms, possibly broke his knees and ankles, but he would not die. But with this murderous lunatic here, his chances of survival were running thin by the seconds.

Freeman is mute. That much he knew from the dispatch profiling. It made sense, because now he was making swift hand gestures none stop. He understood some of them, as they were similar to the CS combat signals.

[search]

[hurt]

[us]

[leave]

And...

[home]?

The hands were moving far too quickly for him to catch up. He made another frustrated groan and watched Freeman’s face fell. He paused for a second, then made another short decisive motion. This time the message was clear:

[you are coming with me]

Well, turned out he was indeed _not_ going to die. Freeman would not allow him. Maybe he mistook him for someone else from his little criminal gang. But how would anyone look at an Overwatch soldier and their exposed inhuman features, then proceed to mistake them for a living person? Or, he was simply taking him hostage, aiming to gain information or use his body parts for biological research. It could be any of them, or none at all. His body hurt like hell, and CS-2550 could only hope the other was not planning to hurt him more.

The Resistance leader circled an arm around his middle and lifted him up, carefully avoiding bumping into his nasty bleeding shoulder. Slowly but steadily, he started carrying him away from the crumbled ruins. Chaos subdued for the time being, with the rebels charging toward the Citadel and majority of the army chasing after them. Silence fell ominously over the streets like ashes. Without the mask filtering everything, for the first time he could actually _smell_ the air.

It smelt like fire.

Everything was burning. Apartment buildings reduced to rebars and dust, Combine Barricades lying in pieces across the sidewalk like carcasses of giant animals.

He did not remember what Earth creatures look like anymore, most of them driven to the edge of extinction by all the invasive species from other dimensions. He had stumbled upon some neglected files in the computer system years ago, and it was about some extinct mammals living in the sea. Whales. They were called whales. The Combine drained up rivers and oceans for resources. The already fragile Earth Ecosystem destroyed, its inhabitants gone. That day, he opened up an unnamed sound file and listened to the wales sang. He thought he felt something, maybe longing, but he was not sure he understands what longing means. It was just a word stuck in his vocabulary for some odd reason. The transforming should have removed it, but there it remained, a ghost of only fragments of his former conscience.

The files were gone the next time he tried to access them.

Gordon Freeman was far smaller than even a minimal-sized whale. He was merely a human, weak, already trembling under some extra weight draped around his shoulder. But he sensed it, a similarity, a link he could not explain. The whales and their otherworldly songs. The human and his solid embrace. He leaned further into those arms and heard singing again. Endless waves of sorrow and loneliness. They spoke to him and drew him in like a black hole. CS-2550 felt like a black hole too, without memory or emotions, only purpose fed to him by an unseen hand. Maybe he was looking for something other than the cold even Overwatch Voice. Maybe he wanted, _longed_ , to be able to _feel_ again...

He turned his head aside and found Freeman still staring at him. Weird, but nothing he could not stomach for now. The mute opened his mouth and started talking to him silently. He tried to focus, but he lost his mask and it was noon and the sun was too goddamn bright. But Freeman looked like he did not care either. And he talked, and talked. CS-2550 watched his lips move, his striking green eyes shone like warm ocean under a tropical sun, his hair burned brighter than all the flames and ashes surrounding them both. 

And finally he saw it, a name, a human name weaved constantly into his quiet monologue. He did not know why, but he believed it was meant for him.

[Barney]

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say. Combine Soldiers are badass bitches and modified Barney won’t leave my head when I lie awake 2 in the morning. I do have an idea for a sequel. Though it’d definitely be another bumpy ride and I’m not mentally prepared to throw myself down there yet. We’ll see. Thanks whoever’s still reading this note. Play videogames, stay safe, and have a nice one:)


End file.
